...Recon 8 Largo...

http://io9.com/concept-art-writing-prompt-recon-mission-1710736326

"No joy on Viceroy.  No joy on Cabinet.  Four partial bodies.  Nothing scavenged."  Klaas still did not shoulder his weapon.  None of the soldiers of the R8L did.  This was SOP.  This was protocol.

Control came over from the Tower, "Stand by Largo."  Klaas scanned again.  He called to his stick for a sitrep.  The stick were still there.  Eight beaters.  But he called over Grey.  She had just gotten a bit too far to the fore.  The soft powder of sand blurring her from sight.  If you can't see me, I sure as hell can't see you.  She knows the drill.

"Any ID on the victims?"  Victims.  This was a massacre.  "Negative.  I say again, 'Only partials.'  We'll have to scan them."  Partials meant there were no identifying characteristics.  This was common for the Suyal: take the meat and keep the Regal guessing.  No faces, no hands, no feet.  Chunks of skin that they didn't have time to gather up.  It took Klaas some minutes to dig under rubble to find it.  He knew they were there.  "Eyes up, stick."  The bugs didn't come yet, but they will want whatever is left.  The sand will take the transport in the next pass mark of the sun.

"Gather the partials."  Damn.  His religion forbade moving it, but, if the Regal demands it, he must comply.  They would test the partials to see if any wee the Viceroy or the Cabinet and determine if they would still be alive.  These aren't organs at least: these are skin.  Here is skin and what looks like a mangled finger.  There is bone.  He collected them into small air tight bags.  The wind picked up.

"One more time Largo: do another visual sweep and work your way to the aft.  Grey you are on point.  By the book: I want everyone's eyes on each other.  I am sweeping too."  He turned and pulled at the debris again.  So much appliance here.  It will be destroyed by night fall.  A waste and another massive loss in their war with the Suyal.

A child's toy caught his attention.  It was a small smoothed agate.  It was a game called 'lot'.  You would take the small flat stone, lay it upon the top of your hand.  You then had to flip your palm and catch it.  Depending on how you did it, you would count upon your fingers.  The first to five would win.  There was a child here.  He flipped on his speakers, "Child!  Can you hear me?  If you can, you must come to me, right now.  Right now!  The sand will eat this ship soon and the bugs come out at night."  He flipped them off.  Only one warning.  Follow protocol.

He twisted back from the wreckage to find Carn perfectly still.  He found something.  Klaas dare not bother his best shot when he was in that position.  He raised his weapon and scanned.  However, they did not share scopes.  He was quiet when he raised the stick, "Largo, back to the aft.  I need you here now."  Carn did not respond but stood like a statue.

"Sir, I can't find Grey."  Damn.  Control quickly after, "Problems, Recon?"

"Yes Control, I've got meat in my pocket and the sands are shifting.  Grey has gone missing.  Stand-by, but I need transport in..." he paused to assess those that he could see, "...six minutes."

"Six minutes, mark."  There was a beep that hit all of their HUDs.  Klaas ran to the fore, passing two of his mates, they knew to keep going.  Six minutes is not long.

"Grey!"  He turned on his speakers and put his back to the craft.  The wind kicked up and he felt the sand shift under his feet.  "Grey!"  Damn.  Damn.  Damn.

"When was the last visual of Grey?"

"She was walking back to us when you called her.  I turned around and did a :30 second sweep, she was gone when I looked up.  There's a crack ahead from you sir.  I'm standing half way in.  I'm sure this is where she went."

Five minutes.

"Get back to the others Rowe.  I'll switch with you.  Grey!"  He ran ahead and patted Rowe on the shoulder.  He didn't leave her.  Can't say we didn't want to leave her.  "Go on!  Stick: roll call.  Rowe is heading back to you."

Roll call was given, five were at the LZ, Rowe on his way back, Klaas would have to run back fast.  Sweat was rolling through his suit.  "Carn is still scanning something.  You going to shoot it or what?"

Carn came on, his voice was smooth and calm as glass, "It's just staring at me.  It's the Suyal, but he's right on the horizon, going in and out.  Almost wasn't sure it was them until a few seconds ago."  Too late to attach now.  Carn watched as its translucent indigo outfit became more stark as the sky turned dark.  A storm.  The Suyal knew the secret of the sands, it knew how to survive all night and not choke on sand.  It knew how to wriggle between shifts, when to hold its breath, when to swim again.  It had fewer bones, it was flatter in angles.  "Klaas, you better call it, if they make for us, your going to be out of our reach...we'll have two people to worry about."

"Grey!"  Klaas hit the side of the transport and started to run, "Grey: if you can hear me, we can be back, but you got to tell us.  Now.  If not..."  He ran as the sands escaped him.  The fuselage buckled toward him, so he ran diagonally.  The wind was pulling it from underneath, it would soon roll on its port side.  He kept Carn in view and ran for him, "Let's go Carn.  Transport's here and they will land hot."

He couldn't imagine the wind even several feet above them now.  The crystalline mass of the evening lurkspier came rolling in.  "Stick...call out by number twice!"  He hoped he got that out in time.  A gale rammed into the entire stick and pushed them down.  They scrambled to get up quickly, or be eaten whole in a matter of seconds.  They are all here.  Only Grey.  Only Grey.

The Recon Flyer came down, but could not land on the shift sands.  The downed transport had already fallen to port.  They had to get out of the sand now.  They ran for the transport and shoot their grappling magnets, almost in unison.  They couldn't even hear the comforting sound of the metal clanging.  They rose and scrambled, Klaas was the last aboard.  He wanted to call out to Grey, but it was much to late.  They all stared at the fuselage, which was all but gone, only the open tears, like wounds, were open to the sky.  They were being covered, holes getting filled.  The lurkspier covered it and they would not see any of this, ever again.

...La mort et le bucheron...art by MarcSimonetti...io9 writing prompt...

The woodsman stared at Death for a spell.  Death simply stared back.  Despite being a collection of bones and rags, lacking a tongue and any flesh all together, Luthric could read his movements as if he were speaking, You summoned me.  Its tone was nonplussed.  The woodsman could make out that he was wasting his time.  A bout of consumption was making the rounds in Castle Arthrias and the courts nearest its high walls.  Serves them right.  He grimaced for a second, his right eye a flash of temper.  He stocked it away when he realized that Death couldn't make the distinction - the hatred was in his heart.  But here Death was and he would rather die than be wrong.

"I summoned you, that is true.  Yet, you did not have to come to me.  Figuring you are a busy man in high esteem in your world and all afraid of you in this one, I'm thinking you're wasting my time.  At least both of our times, then."

Death broke the intent of his gaze, appeared confused, looking over Luthric at the woodpile, somewhere the light fell into the endless shadow of his sockets.  His head cocked and straightened up to his full height, You...you mean to say that you called me and I'm wasting your time?

Indeed did Luthric mean it: somewhere in the peanut that was his brain, he absolutely believed, to the core of his being that his time was being wasted, "I called you when the wood shifted from my shoulders, I called you when I needed you to help set it aright.  You did not come.  You came after the load fell.  What good does it do me then?"  He waved his hand at the mess.  "You understand how long it takes to set a load and to get it half-way home.  It will take the same time to load it again.  I don't need you now, you may go."  He waved his hand again, this time at the tattered robes of Death.

The latter could not take it anymore.  He rose even higher, as if he was holding some of his power back.  He appeared to grow girth where he did not have it before.  Even his scythe seem to thicken.  His skull, devoid of the emotion of men, took on the colour of anger at least.  He stabbed the staff into the earth and the entire forest shook.  Animals broke from the thickets and the birds from their branches.  Luthric couldn't but shield his head with his arms.

"What's all that for, man?"

I am no man, Luthric Selrach of Arthrias.  I AM DEATH.

"Aye, I know.  I figured by yer wont that you are who you say: bones and all that guff.  And yes I'm of the guild Selrach, but don't say'n that I come from Arthrias."  He spat.  "I don't hold no cause for that town that disdained me."

Listen...

Luthric turned his crooked back and sighed, "Nay, you'd not understand.  I'm a woodsman that no one even knows is here.  I could have died there, that's why I may," he turned and gave Death his right eye, "...may have called upon you in a moment's whim."

Death sighed and seemed to understand Luthric.  He nodded his staff to the lot of wood.  "You're going to help me?  After I've wasted your precious time."

Death sighed once more and rolled his head.  He nodded again to the wood.  Luthric staggered over to it and bent over, awaiting the load.  The shrouded figure hovered toward him and made motions with his hands.

"I'd thank you, but I could have done this myself, you know."  He scowled with the self-satisfaction that all boors hold for themselves when they believe they've gotten over on someone.  Luthric Selrach of Loneliness, I never came here to take you away.

"Yer damn sure of that."  Luthric scowled and waited under the load that slowly fell upon him.  He grabbed out to both ropes that evened its load across his back.  His knees bent with it.  His knees bent even more.  Then Death let the load go.  Luthric felt his back's bones crack under the weight.  The load was made more by thrice.  It's as if he took an entire old beech and laid it across his back.  He saw Death float away from him, ne'er turning back once.  Luthric stumbled forward with the weight: it wouldn't matter which way he leaned, the load was perfectly upon him to crush him if he let it out.  He would die soon.

Death turned and began to fade away.  If a skull could wink, Luthric felt this one would.

La mort et le bucheron by MarcSimonetti on DeviantArt